


Knowing Little Notes

by accioambition



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, For elementary schoolers, Gen, Just lots of fluff, Love Letters, Pen Pals, Substitute Teacher AU, ish, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 16:45:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accioambition/pseuds/accioambition
Summary: Emma Swan doesn’t do kids. Or, more accurately, she hasn’t done kids. But when a friend in need asks her to do kids - more specifically teach them - Emma dips her toes into the education field. Her first foray into substitute teaching is for Mr K. Jones, who proves to be a great asset in this whole “learning to teach” thing. It helps Emma understand what her friends get out of the job: that the best life lessons sometimes come from students and a nice little note.





	Knowing Little Notes

**Author's Note:**

> And here's my contribution to this year's Captain Swan Little Bang! I had such a fun time writing this and it was surprisingly easy because substitute teaching has become my life now. HUGE shotuout and thanks-a-millions to techinicallysizzlingcloud for betaing this and mrs-emma-swan-jones for creating a lovely imageset that I will maybe hopefully attach to this later. But you should definitely see it on tumblr :) Enjoy!

By trade - if you could call it that - Emma is a bail bondsperson. She chases after skips who’ve failed to pay her back: an irony in the fact that she has nothing, money or otherwise. She’s got an apartment the size of a comfortable closet and enough to eat takeout on occasion. Still, it doesn’t  require a college degree that she doesn’t have and it’s active enough for her. It’s great for the lifestyle she leads. She can find a gig in any city, no matter where she might find herself. It’s awesome.

 

Until it isn’t.

 

She’s sprained her ankle one too many times and this time around she’s got a broken wrist to accompany with it. Her skip decided to get a little rougher with her than usual, slamming her wrist into a granite counter. She’s lucky it was only her wrist with the heels she was wearing.

 

Still, a broken wrist means a cast: which means she’s out of the bail bonds game for at least the next two months, probably longer. Her office won’t pay her rent or her bills, to the surprise of no one, and she’s not moving out of the only little square of the world she’s ever been able to call her own.

 

That’s how she falls into substitute teaching.

 

Mary Margaret tells her about it one evening soon after Emma gets her cast on, taking on the role of pseudo-mother caring for her healing daughter.

 

(She even signs the cast, and Emma can't quite quell the feeling of a little girl excited to have everyone at school sign her cast.)

 

It’s an easy way to make money, Mary Margaret insists - solid hours, a schedule that changes, yet stays the same and the properly-trained regular teacher comes up with all the plans.

 

“All you have to do is follow them,” her friend tells her.

 

She helps Emma cut the plastic bag off her arm after showering all the sweat and hospital grime of her body. A timer goes off in the kitchen, Emma’s rickety oven on the verge of catching fire with the casserole Mary Margaret’s got cooking away in it. With an thrilled little noise, she goes off to check dinner.

 

(Emma is consistently surprised she isn’t actually Mary Margaret’s child with her husband David. With the way they all act around each other, they might as well be.)

 

“I don’t know,” Emma shouts into the other room, ripping the remainder of the shopping bag off her arm. “I don’t really do kids.”

 

“You _haven’t_ really done kids,” Mary Margaret corrects her. The top of her head pokes from around the door jamb to glare at the other woman. “That doesn’t mean you can’t do them.”

 

She disappears again and Emma can hear the oven door screech open, slam shut, and her friend place whatever was heating up on the stovetop. A drawer opens and Mary Margaret returns to her living room to take the seat next to Emma’s, an empathetic expression on her face.

 

“Give it a try. I’ll put your name in the system for some coworkers of mine and you can try it out. If you don’t like it, you don’t like it. But at least it’ll get you out of the house.”

 

“And the money,” Emma adds, pointing a finger down the plane of her face. “Gotta pay rent somehow.”

 

Mary Margaret’s hand comes to rest on the hand of hers that isn’t wrapped up in plaster. “We can help you out this month if you need it,” she offers. “You just figure yourself out first and then we can deal with everything else.”

 

“Thanks Mary Margaret.” Sighing, Emma relaxes into the couch cushion, enjoying the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen. Her eyes slide shut for a moment, merely taking in the aroma mixed with the warmth of her seat, and the nice little cocktail of pain meds she’s got in her system right now. When she opens her eyes, Mary Margaret’s expression has morphed into something weirder, like she’s holding back a secret, which she never does.

 

(She tries, bless her honest heart, but Emma knows from experience that if you share a secret with Mary Margaret, you share a secret with David and all of his work friends, and sooner rather than later, all of Storybrooke knows.)

 

“You don't happen to have an ulterior motive, do you?” she asks. Hesitantly, Mary Margaret shakes her head, but her eyes widen and she's biting her lip and her cheeks are starting to grow red.

 

She's lying.

 

“Mary Margaret,” Emma chides, drawing out the final syllable of her name.

 

Her friend shrugs. “Well, you need a gig,” she says slowly. “And I'm going to need a long-term sub in the near future.”

 

Long term? Not that she didn’t already suspect it, but now Emma knew something was off. In all the days and months and years that she’s known Mary Margaret, she’s never known her to skip out on school. She loved those kids as if she had carried and borne them herself, every single one of them. “How near?” Emma asks.

 

Shrugging, a small grin starts to grow on Mary Margaret’s’ lips. “About five or six months,” she says. That only further confuses Emma. Mary Margaret giggles and slaps her knee. “Oh, did I forget to mention I'm pregnant?”

 

Emma's silent with shock, her jaw dropped. She’s not quite sure why: it _is_ the next natural chapter in their story. Both of them would be - _will be_ , she supposes now - wonderful parents.  Mary Margaret with the summers off and David as overprotective as he is make the perfect combination. Not to mention they’ve both got so much love, they aren’t sure where to put it.

 

And she gets to be cool Aunt Emma. All the perks of having a kid with the option of returning him or her to their biological parents.

 

But her silence apparently lasts too long as Mary Margaret’s expression begins to fall. It seems she’s taken Emma’s moment to process the wrong way. “Look, just try it out,” she insists, her hands coming up between them. “If you don't like it, I'll find another sub, but you're going to love it and you'll love my class this year. I promise, I don't trust anyone else but someone close to me with-”

 

Emma interrupts her unnecessarily hurried words with a hug despite both sets of knees impeding them. “I'm so happy for you,” she says into the fabric of Mary Margaret’s shirt shoulder.

 

It sounds like Mary Margaret’s crying, or trying not to and failing to do so. She’s making little sobbing-hiccup noises into Emma’s ear.

 

When they pull away from each other, Emma’s proven right: Mary Margaret’s eyes are red around the rims and she wipes at what may or may not have been full-fledged tears. Emma nods, feeling her smile grow on her face.

 

“Yeah, I'll give it a try, but don't you worry about what comes after.” Taking her hands, Emma squeezes them. “You're having a baby!”

 

Mary Margaret nods enthusiastically, still wiping at the remnants of tears. “Yeah.”

 

“How'd David react?” Emma asks excitedly. If she knows David at all, she knows that his reaction to the news of impending fatherhood would rank high on the list of adorable videos on YouTube.

 

“Oh, I've got a video.” Mary Margaret digs beneath her for her phone, chuckling the entire time. Once she’s unearthed it, she unlocks the phone and hands it over to Emma. “It's only the latter part of his reaction, but it was wonderful.”

 

In the video, David’s already kneeling on the ground, his face painfully contorted into something precious, with a little onesie in his hands.

 

“It’s a Huskies jersey,” Mary Margaret explains. “It’s got Nolan and the number three on the back.”

 

“That’s too cute,” Emma replies, her eyes still transfixed on the phone screen. It’s sweet, even if the jersey idea is a little cliche for her taste. UConn’s basketball team is David’s favorite, a relic of his glory days of college, and it was the first round of the 2004 NCAA tournament that he met Mary Margaret in a Boston bar. The Huskies went on to win that year, and, rumor has it, David proposed the night they did.

 

She definitely spots tears rolling down David’s face as Mary Margaret’s recorded giggle comes from the speaker. He keeps asking, “Really? Are you serious? No joke?” and Emma can’t help but feel her own eyes begin to water.

 

(She blames it on the painkillers, messing with her natural emotional state.)

 

Thankfully, the video ends, and she has to take a moment to collect herself before turning back to her friend. During her life, Emma’s friends have been few and far between, but since the moment she accidentally spilled coffee on Mary Margaret’s skirt while running after a skip, she’s known the woman’s heart was two sizes too big. Her reaction had been to worry about Emma and her hand drenched in scalding coffee over the fabric dripping down her legs and the stain ruining it.

 

“You're going to be an amazing mother, Mary Margaret.”

 

Mary Margaret’s smile is watery, her eyes shining with joy. “I have as much confidence in you as you have in me,” she assures Emma. With a final pat to her hand, she stands and begins to pack up her things. “You need to rest now. I'll text you the details of a job and you can ask all your questions later.” She points toward the kitchen. “Dinner should be cool and ready to eat in five minutes. Just throw some tin foil on top and put it in the fridge when you’re done.”

 

Emma hums, the thought of sleep quite inviting, as she settles into the couch cushions. “Thanks, Mom,” she mumbles. “Congratulations.”

 

0000

 

Of course, the classroom door is locked when Emma finally finds it, which forces her to wander about even longer until she discovers the front office again. When the custodian graciously opens the door and flips on the lights, she’s only got about fifteen minutes until first bell.

 

“Great,” she mumbles to herself. “Off to a great start.”

 

She’s still got the cast on her wrist, weeks one through four checked off on her road to recovery. At her last visit, the doctor told her things were looking good, but due to her age, the bones were resetting slower than normal.

 

(That’s something every late 20s, early 30s woman wants to hear. “You’re too old for your bone to move like they used to, so hope you like not being able to wash your hands properly.”)

 

But for now, Emma’s got her first gig as a substitute teacher to tackle. Hopefully more in the psychological and mental aspects and not so much in the physical one. According to the text Mary Margaret sent her last week, she’s subbing in on a fifth grade class today.

 

 _Better for novice subs_ , she wrote. _They’re pretty smart and they know how to use the bathroom by themselves._

 

 _Didn’t know that was an issue I might be facing,_ Emma responded, _but awesome._

 

As Mary Margaret had informed her, the teacher’s left the lesson plans on his desk, front and center, an array of worksheets and handouts surrounding it. This teacher, a Mr Jones, has labeled every pile with the period it had to be handed out with a sticky note. It was all so precise, she can't quite believe that this man is a teacher and not the commander of an army. If she was a more ambitious and less anxious person at the moment, she might pull out a ruler and measure exactly how far apart each pile is from the other.

 

(She’s willing to bet it’s equivalent all the way around.)

 

Granted, she thinks as she quickly skims the plans and shuffles the piles around, keeping order in a classroom might be worse than any war zone at certain times.

 

She reaches the end of her agenda for the day and finds a handwritten note added after the typed postscript asking for notes throughout the day.

 

‘Many thanks for helping a dashing rapscallion out. Mary Margaret spoke quite highly of you. They're good kids. You'll do wonderfully. K. Jones.’

 

Emma sighs and slumps down into the rolling chair behind his desk. “Well at least he's confident enough for the both of us,” she grumbles to herself.

 

Flicking her eyes to her watch, she finds she's still got a few minutes. She breathes deeply, mentally giving herself a pep talk while taking in the rest of the room. What looks like a reading nook - bookshelves and small bean bags - crowds the corner next to her. Cabinets and closets line the other side of the room until they reach the door diagonal to her current seat. There's a question of the day written on the board, awaiting students to answer it in order to inform her of their attendance. Each clustered table of desks has a sign dangled over it, what look game pieces from Battleship, if Emma's not mistaken.

 

In front of her, it’s a surprisingly clean desk, save for the teaching supplies K. Jones has left out for her. A pencil holder with a few writing utensils and some scissors is the only teacher-like decoration - the only decoration at all, save for two framed photos. One of the frames holds the picture of a boat and the other is of two men on what's presumably the same boat. They've both got dark hair, one more so than the other. They're both quite handsome, with striking blue eyes and wide grins across their faces.

 

The mess of the maniac - whether K. Jones be the curly haired one or the black haired one in the photo - is behind the desk: piles of papers and trays, books and clipboards. How anyone could find a single thing in that mess, Emma decides as she stands, is a fucking miracle. She doesn't even want to contemplate that part of teaching, the grading and commenting and whatever.

 

She's writing her name toward the top of the chalkboard when she hears “Who are you?” from behind her. Emma turns to find a boy, backpack heavy and jacket nearly swallowing him up, standing in the doorway.

 

“Are you our substitute?” he asks.

 

Emma nods, gulping away her nerves. “Yeah.” Her voice wavers, so she clears her throat and tries again. “Yeah, Mr Jones is out today. I'm Ms Swan.”

 

The kid walks up to a desk at the cluster of tables beneath the aircraft carrier sign, close to the front, and sets his backpack on top. “Cool.” He says it so nonchalantly that Emma wonders if she was that calm and collected when she had a substitute at school. She remembers bits and pieces of elementary school, most memories tainted by bad group homes or unworthy foster parents. To be honest, thinking back on it now, Emma’s pretty sure she spent most of her grade school days daydreaming in fairy tales.

 

The zip of the boy’s backpack wakes her up a little bit, and Emma shakes her head. As he’s putting books and journals in his desk, he asks, “Are we gonna watch movies all day?”

 

Emma chuckles, setting the chalk down on the blackboard shelf. “Sorry, kid, but Mr Jones actually left us a bunch of stuff to do.” He groans, the arms of his jacket shushing as his shoulders slump. “Don't worry, there's a game or two, I think,” she assures him. The boy goes on, grumbling to himself as he hangs up his jacket and backpack. Curiosity strikes her as she shoots another glance at the classroom clock. “What are you doing here? I didn't hear the bell ring.”

 

“My mom’s the principal, so we come in early and I go and count the buses.” He pushes his chair in beneath his desk, then comes up to her with an outstretched hand. “I'm Henry.”

 

“Oh, cool,” she says, very adultlike and not at all frightened by the fact that the _principal’s son_ is in her class today. “Hi.”

 

He stares, assessing her with his wide brown eyes. Henry squints at her and Emma can’t help but try and swallow away the lump that’s gotten stuck in her throat. “You’re a new substitute, aren’t you?” he inquires slowly.

 

Guilty, Emma grimaces. “Is it that easy to tell?”

 

Henry shrugs, finally releasing her hand. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” He points toward a couple of desks in the back of the room, near the reading corner. “These kids are going to give you the most trouble, but if you threaten them with walking the plank, they usually hush.”

 

“Walking the plank?” she asks, confusion coloring her voice. It sounds like a reprimanding tactic, but she would have thought that something like a plank to be walked across should’ve been mentioned in the lesson plan.

 

(Not to mention it sounds kind of humiliating. While Emma wouldn’t have put it past the administration back in her schooling days, it sounds a little too corporal punishment-y for the school system Mary Margaret has described.)

 

“It’s basically a detention. Mr Jones sends someone to the lunchroom to sit with Lunch Lady Cora.” He turns back to her, lifting his hand up to hide his mouth from the side. Dramatically, Henry whispers, “Sometimes, the kids come back crying.”

 

“What? Is he allowed to do that?”

 

“Mhm,” Henry hums with a nod. “They usually just help count the lunch money or clean the lunch trays, but Cora is not a nice lady.”

 

Emma scoffs and goes to stand by Mr Jones’ desk. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

 

She jumps a bit when Henry pats her on the arm. “You’re going to do great, Ms Swan. I believe in you,” he tells her.

 

As silly as it may seem, one of her temporary students having such innocent confidence in her does make her heartbeat slow just a tad and her nerves settle. Plus, it bodes well for how she deals with kids.

 

(Maybe Mary Margaret is right; maybe she just _hasn’t_ had the opportunity to do this child caring thing.)

 

“Thanks, Henry,” she says quietly. “That really means a lot.”

 

He smiles. “Well, I’ve got to get to work. I’ll be back before the morning announcements.”

 

“Alright,” she says with a sigh. “Be good.”

 

Nodding, Henry salutes her. “Yes ma'am.”

 

As Henry leaves the classroom, the morning bell rings. He’ll have to fight against the stream of kids heading to their rooms, chatting about last night’s football game, or the pros and cons of certain Pokemon.

 

(That’s something kids talk about, right?)

 

In the few precious moments of solitude she has left, Emma takes another deep breath.

 

“Here goes nothing,” she murmurs.

 

0000

 

She sits down at the teacher’s desk after seeing the students off to their busses. Heels were a poor choice today and she's got the start of a migraine brewing behind her eyelids.

 

Despite all that, Emma hasn't felt so accomplished in a long time. Even before she spent the last month sitting on her couch, watching Netflix and trying to avoid the unscratchable itch on her forearm. While the bail bonds business was always booming, the rush of adrenaline attained by catching a skip was nothing compared to the camaraderie and naivete an elementary school supplied her with in one day.

 

For the moment, Emma slides her feet from her shoes, letting the blood flow back to the places where the nerves have been pinched for the majority of the day. Sighing, she reads over the handwriting scrawled across the bottom of the lesson plan again. Then she flips the little packet over. She contemplates what to write - whether to tell him that Henry was a great asset and helper today, how far they got in the science lesson, and the like - but she settles on the simplest of comments.

 

‘You're right: they're great kids. I'd be happy to come back. E. Swan.’

 

And it feels right, scribbling that out at the bottom of the page. But then she feels a little guilty, not leaving details about their lesson on photosynthesis, or that his math class managed to trick her into playing Jeopardy the entire time; so Emma goes back and leaves some notations along the side of Mr Jones’ outline. Little things, nothing extensive, but it is her first time subbing. How is she supposed to know what to do?

 

When Emma feels that all is said and done, she packs up her purse, straightens up the piles of papers, and heads back into the empty hallway, the room darkening behind her. Her heels are back on, their click-clacks slow and measured now that her feet ache and she doesn’t have to walk from desk to desk explaining certain questions.

 

“So?” The voice comes from ahead of her, raising in question. Mary Margaret’s locking up her own classroom, two bags hanging from her shoulder with another one on the ground beneath her feet. Despite being busy with her own class, Mary Margaret made sure to check up on Emma during her planning period. She’s got a smile on her face right now, shouldering her third bag as she asks more leadingly: “How’d it go?”

 

Emma laughs, giving up the battle with her heels. When she meets up with her friend, she leans against the wall and takes her shoes off until the coolness of the linoleum soothes her feet. “It all makes sense now,” she says.

 

Mary Margaret chuckles, hitching her bags up higher. “And what, exactly, does that mean?”

 

Taking pity on her friend, Emma grabs one of the bags from her hand and throws it over her own shoulder.

 

She ponders over her words before responding. “You always tell me how tired you are and how your feet hurt and I never understood because I thought you spent all day playing Legos with a bunch of kids,” she explains. “But now I get it.”

 

“That’s all I wanted to hear.” Together, they walk - or stumble, more suitably for Emma - down the hall, bidding goodbye to other teachers and staff members as they make their ways outside.

 

With a sigh, Emma’s forced to take a seat inside the front office to don her shoes once more.

 

“So?” Mary Margaret asks, pushing open the front door.

 

The afternoon sun burns Emma’s eyes after a day spent indoors under artificial light, and that along with her friend’s hanging question cause her to grunt.

 

Mary Margaret sighs and nudges her arm. “Did you like it? Can I count on you to sub for me?”

 

Her immediate answer is _no_ \- it goes unspoken, but Emma’s first response is always to avoid change. Especially change that might benefit her. She’s been a runner all her life, which made bail bonds a wonderful option from her. She could pick up and move, find other skips to chase in any city in and state, no matter what problem she might have been running from at the time: relationships, dreams, emotional trauma, just to name a few.

 

But this is Mary Margaret, her closest friend in the world, one of two people she’d do anything for. And she did have a wonderful time today. Her comment to Mr Jones was the furthest thing from a lie, surprisingly enough.

 

When they reach their cars, Emma takes a deep breath and turns to her friend. “I'll do it,” she says, confident grin across her face. “It was great. So when little Emmett comes, I'll sub for you.”

 

Furrowing her brows, Mary Margaret repeats, “Emmett?”

 

“Well, it kind of seems like you guys are set on a little dude and you're obviously going to name him after the most important person in your life,” she reasons, smile growing wider.

 

“My husband?” she says. “My father, or his?”

 

Emma scoffs, opening the driver’s door with a flourish. Brushing her hair off her shoulder, she says, “Me, obviously.”

 

“Of course.” Mary Margaret comes over and hugs Emma, squeezing her a little tighter than considered normal. “How could I be so obtuse?”

 

“It’s okay,” Emma says, patting her on the back. “You’ve obviously got a bad case of pregnancy brain.”

 

That earns Emma a slap to the shoulder, and chuckles break from her mouth before she can stop them.

 

“It’s not that bad,” Mary Margaret complains, her voice high and on the edge of whining. Her hand falls to her stomach, just a hint of a bump there, easily mistaken for a food baby or even a trick of the light.

 

“Not yet,” Emma corrects her. “But if pop culture is to be believed, the worst is yet to come.”

 

0000

 

Emma’s enjoying the bright and warm sunshine as she steps outside of the doctor’s office when her phone rings.

 

“So much for nice things,” she grumbles.

 

Fishing her phone out of her bag with her new cast around her wrist, Emma sighs when she reads the caller ID. As much as she loves the woman, Mary Margaret has been beginning to get on her nerves in the last couple of weeks. She calls every couple of hours, asking her if she’d be okay with doing this when she’s out because the rest of her team wants to do it or if she wants to take over for so-and-so who’s got an emergency root canal in the morning. And that’s only the school-related calls. The other ones are pregnancy scares or new things she learned while researching during lunch.

 

She’s a mess, in Emma’s opinion. A big happy mess.

 

So when her friend calls on her afternoon off, Emma picks up, no matter how much she wants to just ignore it, go home, and nap on the couch until dinner.

 

“What's up?” Emma greets, walking up to her Bug and leaning against it.

 

“What are you doing Thursday?” Mary Margaret’s words are said without preamble, as if this were a major emergency.

 

(It better be for something good. There is precious nap time to be spent on the couch.)

 

“Umm, nothing, I don't think,” Emma replies. “Why?”

 

There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line, as if Mary Margaret is moving quickly or trying to hide her voice. “I ran into Mr Jones in the hallway and he's had something come up suddenly,” she explains. “Asked if you were available to sub for him.”

 

“Oh.” She can’t say she wasn’t expecting this, but Emma is still kind of surprised. A person with absolutely no training in the field is a little - she doesn’t want to say unwise seeing as she’s benefitting from it, but that’s the only word she can think of at the moment. But it’s nice to know that she did _something_ right the first time around. “Sure. Yeah, I can do that,” she finally decides.

 

On the other side of the line, Mary Margaret makes some little whooping news. “Great, I'll let him know,” she says. “Would you like me to pass on your number so he can contact you directly next time?”

 

“No!” Emma yells, unintentionally scaring the man three cars down trying to load groceries in the trunk. “No, I don't even know the man. That can’t be protocol or something. Tell him to leave any more dates he knows with his plans and I'll get back to him.”

 

Mary Margaret hums in agreement, her tone a little different when she says, “Okay.”

 

“Thanks, Mary Margaret,” Emma offers, opening the car door. “I just got out from the doctors’, so thank you for calling me, but I need to get home before I pass out behind the wheel.”

 

“Oh! Of course!” And with a quick farewell, Mary Margaret’s back to work and Emma’s on her way home.

 

0000

 

This time, Mr Jones’ door is unlocked when Emma makes her way in to school Thursday morning. She’s feeling a little more comfortable with the whole situation, having already gotten over those first time jitters. These kids know her a little better now, and she’d like to think - or maybe hope is the correct terminology - that she has no qualms in making them walk the plank if they act out of order today.

 

Just as before, Emma finds a pile of materials on the otherwise clean desk. She sets down her bag atop the mess behind the desk, slightly more organized than it was the last time she subbed, and begins to read the lesson plans Mr Jones left behind, adorn with a handwritten note at the top.

 

‘Ms Swan - or who I hope is Ms Swan.’

 

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, seeing her name scrawled across the top of the page in this elegant script. He specifically asked Mary Margaret to contact her and his students had to have mentioned her name. But still, something happens inside her when she reads the greeting of his note.

 

‘Thank you for coming in again. You seem to have made quite the impression on my class, for they asked for you by name,” his note goes on to say. “I consider myself a strong man, but when 23 fifth graders plead with their best puppy dog eyes, I am weak-willed and hopeless.’

 

The image she conjures up is of the men staring at her from the picture on the desk, all bravado and masculinity, going to complete puddy at those kids’ request. It does something weird to her stomach, makes it flip and contort into an unusual shape, not unlike how reading her own name in his writing did.

 

His note easily leads into today’s lessons - fractions in math, harms of smoking during health, nothing she doesn’t think she can’t handle - before signing off as he did before: ‘You’ll do wonderfully. K. Jones.’

 

There are many things in life that Emma considers luxuries that some of these kids wouldn’t. She never had any guardians that were so flawless and incredibly confident in her as Henry’s mother. She never really had parents at all: the first time Emma felt like someone actually cared about her was when she met Mary Margaret and David.

 

And now, Mr Jones seems to believe in her as well.

 

“Ms Swan!” Looking up from the notes, Emma’s pleased to find Henry standing in the doorway, his backpack dragging on the ground. “You’re back!”

 

Emma can’t help the wide smile that crosses her face at his sentiments. “Yeah, kid. I’m back.”

 

And surprising her even further, Henry jogs across the room, dropping his bag near the front before embracing her tightly. Tentatively, she pats his back, her hand coming to cradle the base of his head.

 

“Well, this is a very nice welcome back,” she says.

 

Henry steps back, a little breathless. “I’ve got to count the buses, but I’m really excited that Mr Jones asked you to come back.” He’s gone as quick as he’s come, leaving Emma to chuckle to herself. She takes a seat at the teacher’s desk, grabbing a pen from the supplies holder, ready to write down today’s first note.

 

“Mr Jones,” she writes, mumbling to herself. “I was honored to hear that your kids wanted me back. I really enjoyed them the first time around and I’m sure I will even more so this time. I'm afraid if I keep coming back, they'll get the best of me and prove me wrong.” Sticking her tongue out, Emma debates writing the next words, but decides she really has nothing to lose. “But thanks for your bid of confidence. I don’t think I can actually explain to you how much that means to me.”

 

The bell rings, the sound of kids on their way to class start echoing through the hall, and the school day is off to a rousing start for Emma.

 

Homeroom bleeds into social studies which bleeds into math. It’s been a while since she’s had the opportunity to do anything with fractions besides try to suss out whether she’s consumed a legitimate half bottle of wine in any one sitting. But going over it in pizzas - something that hasn’t changed since _she_ was in school - opens her eyes and does make simple math a little more welcoming.

 

Mr Jones left behind a worksheet to cement the information in their fifth grade brains, and after Emma explains it, she claps her hands.

 

“When you guys are finished, you can do something quietly,” she adds, rolling her wrists. “Read, take a nap, doodle, whatever. Just stay quiet.”

 

As she takes a seat at her desk, the scritching of pencils overtakes the room. Mumblings of math questions asked to neighbors die off into silence as the students start, focus, and finish up their work. Always a bit paranoid of what’s to come and making sure she has enough time to get through everything she needs to, Emma flips through the lesson plans again. This time around, she notices that, as she told Mary Margaret to pass along, Mr Jones has included a few more days he’d request her services. She joins the chorus of busy pencils by writing down the days he’s asked her to come in in her planner.

 

(She bought a planner for this whole endeavor and, damn, does it make her feel professional.)

 

Just as she’s penciling in the penultimate date, Henry clears his throat on the other side of the desk. When she looks up, he hands her the piece of paper he’s got in hand.

 

“Are you done already?” she asks.

 

“Yeah, but this isn’t that.” Henry shakes it a bit. “Take it. I drew you something.”

 

“Really?” Emma’s never had anything drawn for her. Granted, she’s never really spent enough time with children to give them the opportunity. Still, she’s oddly honored. “Well, let’s see it.”

 

Taking the paper from his hand, Emma looks at it all. He’s obviously put a lot of work in to it, whipping out the crayons and even signing his name at the bottom in his best attempt at cursive. It’s a drawing with a house and some pretty good stick people, and Emma considers herself to be a stick people connoisseur.

 

“It’s lovely, Henry,” she tells him, meaning every one of those three words.

 

“Good.” She sets it on the desk, trying to take in all the little things he’s included. The house has a chimney with smoke billowing out of it. It even looks like there’s city skyline in the background.

 

(How he managed to do all this work and finish his math worksheet in the allotted amount of time has to be a trick of magic.)

 

Henry points to the figures, standing in front of the house. “This is you, of course,” he explains. “You can tell by the blonde hair and the red jacket.”

 

She chuckles at that. “That’s what I was thinking. It’s cool that you noticed I always wear that jacket.”

 

Shrugging, Henry merely says, “It’s very hard to miss.” And then he gestures to the other figure, standing beside her little stick on the paper. “And this is Mr Jones.”

 

“Oh.” She can see it. The dark hair and what looks like equally as dark clothes on his stick could easily be the men in the photo on Mr Jones’ desk. Henry’s depiction makes it seem like his teacher has curly hair, making Emma believe she’s finally discovered which man in the picture is actually Mr Jones. “And what are we doing?” she asks.

 

“You guys are going home.”

 

“Yeah?” The one thing that Mary Margaret told her before becoming a substitute was the innocence Emma would encounter in the school. When she was a child, Emma remembers believing that teachers lived and slept at school as well. But Henry’s a smart kid - surely his mother would’ve explained that teachers don’t all live together, especially not in the school building. “You know me and Mr Jones don’t live together, right? We have different homes.”

 

“I know,” he assures her. “But I think you would be happy having the same home.”

 

Emma mulls over his comment as Henry makes his way back to his desk. She thinks about it even harder when she comes in a couple days later - at this rate, she’s concerned about whether or not Mr Jones is trying to get himself fired. It seems like _she’s_ spending more time teaching his class than he is and that has to be a liability of some sort - and finds a line in his customary note that doesn’t necessarily shock her, but does mildly surprise her.

 

‘Please, love. The only time you need refer to me as Mr Jones is around the children. Otherwise, please call me Killian.’

 

 _Oh_ , she thinks, taking a seat on Mr Jones’ chair.

 

“Killian,” she corrects herself aloud.

 

The only other person she calls by first name in this school is Mary Margaret, but that’s because she’s Mary Margaret. And Lunch Lady Cora, Emma supposes, but that’s because at this point, she’s convinced the food service manager doesn’t have a last name. Everyone, even principal Regina Mills, calls her Lunch Lady Cora.

 

But now there’s Mr Jones - Killian.

 

Now this is an interesting development.

 

(Maybe Mr Jones and she could be happy in the same home.)

 

0000

 

Though Storybrooke Elementary’s environment is quickly becoming her home turf, there are days where no one - not even Mr Jones, the enigma himself - needs a substitute. And though her wrist is nearly healed completely, Emma’s told her boss she’s taking a little bit of time for herself, exploring other options, something prophetic like that.

 

That being said, there were still bills to be paid and food to be eaten. Christmas presents to save up for that weren’t going to pay for themselves. So she expands her horizons: reaching out to other local schools in the district, picking up the odd jobs here and there, but always more than happy to come back to her Storybrooke home away from home.

 

It makes her days at the elementary school - especially with Mr Jones’ class - all the more precious and enjoyable.

 

She’s pulling double duty one day in January, the morning as Mr Jones while he, apparently, attends to his brother during a bad bout of illness, and the afternoon in the art room. In his plans, Mr Jones - Killian - said he would be back in time for him to escort the students down to the lunch room. Emma’s got them all lined up, ready and quiet for him, but he’s late. And she’s hungry.

 

Luckily, Emma spots Mary Margaret down the hallway, her belly proceeding her in every direction she turns and action she takes. Close to frantically, Emma waves her over.

 

“Are you going somewhere important right now?” Emma asks.

 

Mary Margaret shakes her head. “I was going to see if the vending machine in the lounge had any Cheetos,” she replies.

 

Emma sighs with relief. “Would you mind watching Jones’ class until he gets here? He’s running late and I’ve got other plans to familiarize myself with. I can bring some Chee - “

 

“No, Ms Swan, you have to stay for just a little while longer!” some of the kids whine. They’re getting restless, discussion striking up over the entirety of the line. They’ve been good all morning, so it’s sort of unsettling that they’ve decided to act up _now_ as their teacher could literally be walking down the hall for them.

 

“Why?” Emma asks of the children. Their line is no longer straight and neat; instead, it zig zags, with a few kids here and there straying to the side of their peers to watch her. “What are you kids up to?”

 

She’s seen their innocent faces before, when she’s spoken to them about a project they were supposed to have previous information on and didn’t. These farces of faces are nowhere close to those looks. “Nothing, we just don’t want you to leave,” the general class mumbles.

 

“Well, I’ve got to go,” she tells them, taking a step further away from the classroom and closer to the fridge that holds last night’s leftovers-turned-lunch. “My time with you guys is up today and I’ve got to go grab some lunch before I have to be Mr Jefferson down in the art room.”

 

“You can’t!” Henry yells finally. He’s right on the other side of Mary Margaret, taking this week’s assigned job of line leader very seriously. Everyone's sort of stunned into silence, children and adults alike. “Mr Jones is coming back,” he says in place of an explanation.

 

“I know,” Emma responds slowly, trying not to show her frustration just as her stomach rumbles. “That’s why I’m leaving.”

 

“No,” Henry grouses. “Ms Swan, you’ve really got to meet him.”

 

“I will, one day.” She can feel her expression soften. Though these kids can’t see inside her mind - thank god - but she gets the feeling. For planting himself so solidly in a place in her life, it is a bit of a shame that she and Mr Jones never met in person, only talked through Mary Margaret or his lesson plans. “But right now, I need to eat,” she says gently, her stomach growling quite audibly, further accentuating her point. “Now, be good for Mrs Nolan until Mr Jones comes. Then you can moan and groan to your hearts’ content.” Giving them a smile, Emma sets her hand on her friend’s shoulder and squeezes. “Thanks, Mary Margaret.”

 

She tries to hide her laughter, one hand covering her grin and the other resting on her stomach. “No problem,” she says, waving her off. “Go eat.”

 

Emma’s halfway to the lounge, Mary Margaret barely in sight, when she shouts back, “I’ll get you the Cheetos, I promise!”

 

0000

 

In the months that she’s been substituting, Emma’s learned quite a lot. She’s learned the basics of each grades’ curriculum, the generic schedule of the day, and most of the names of the rest of the staff.

 

(She’s pretty impressed with herself.)

 

(She’s also learned a lot more about the man who’s chair she often sits in while watching his class. And he writes like he’s got a stick up his ass, but in that whole Jane Austen, kind of romantic way.)

 

(Her heart speeds up every time she reads his customary last line - _you’ll do wonderfully. K. Jones_ \- even if she doesn’t admit it aloud or to herself.)

 

But the hardest lesson she’s learned during her time is that even the best situations come to a harsh head at some point in time. On a late winter day, something has ruined the feng shui or the status quo or whatever else you might want to call the vibe Jones’ class has managed to pull off every time Emma’s come in to sub. Today was a shitshow, and that’s putting it lightly.

 

From the moment Henry walked in this morning, already running behind and in a grumpy mood because his mother wouldn’t allow him to go to a sleepover later that night, Emma knew it was going to be a bad day. It was gray and rainy outside, her shoes were soaked through, and something just felt off.

 

It only went downhill from there.

 

Lily threw up in the classroom sink, setting off commiserative vomiting from Austin and Camille.  Though the custodian tried to clean it up while the classroom was empty, the smell lingered, making it the only thing Jones’s kids would talk about for the rest of the day. Every sentence example, math problem, anything, had to do with puke.

 

It made Emma not only feel crappier than she’d been feeling earlier, but it all made her feel nauseous herself, as well as develop a headache. When she realizes two and a half hours are still left in the school day, it takes incredible effort not to collapse in Killian’s chair and break down.

 

After drudging back in from the pouring rain that greeted her at dismissal time, Emma is a step and a half away from murdering the next person who speaks to her. She needs to punch something or scream, anything to rid herself of this frustration and anger making her vision red. She should use this mood to fuel a gym workout, but she knows she’ll barely make it to the liquor store before going back to her place and drinking it all, whatever it is, in one sitting.

 

She takes a moment to collect herself, taking some deep breaths at Killian’s desk, his lesson plans staring up at her. She has to write the day’s notes and, as she’s been since the start, Emma’s going to be honest.

 

Completely foregoing her customary greeting, Emma gets to the point. ‘I take it all back. Your kids are little shits.’ _Solid start_ , she thinks to herself.

 

Her anger floods out of her without any real permission. ‘God, I don't know what happened to them, but I wanted to strangle them all, and I know I shouldn't be telling you this because you love them and they love you, you're their captain and they're your crew but they're all little shits. And I know that was a run on sentence BUT THAT’S HOW FRUSTRATED I AM.’ Hand beginning to cramp, Emma leans on the back fo the chair and sighs.

 

During her past gigs, she’s sometimes held back the darker parts of the day - if they didn’t get to a certain activity or if she had to send someone to detention - because, overall, his class was wonderful. She thought so, especially after visiting other school with classes not nearly as tame.

 

Today was just too much, though. Putting pen back to paper, Emma begins again. ‘I'm sorry, I shouldn't be writing this down, but I've got no other way to tell you. And I wanted to tell you, but not in a tattle tale sort of way.’ She sighs again, her frustration nearly drained away now. ‘I really do like your kids and I know that everyone has bad days, but the chances that all 23 of them were having a bad day on the same day are odds practically worth playing the lottery on.’

 

Mary Margaret knocks on the door, asking her if she’s ready to head home yet, and Emma quickly ends her note with her signature. Packing up her stuff, she debates telling her friend about the circus she was ringmaster of today, but she doesn’t.

 

(If she doesn't tell him that she feels like he'd understand her feelings better than Mary Margaret or any of the other teachers, that’s her business.

 

And his, if he wants it to be.)

 

0000

 

For some reason, spring in an elementary school is a better place. Not that there’s any scientific proof that accompanies Emma’s conclusion, but she can safely say that she hasn’t experienced a spring like this one. The kids are happier, especially since they can start going back outside for recess after the horrible winter. The teachers are excited to see the end of the school year in sight.

 

There’s one thing specifically that makes this spring the best one yet, though.

 

Once again, she’s subbing for Mr Jones on a Thursday. His excuse is that he’s cashing in some vacation days to clean up his ship before he and his brother take out it out on the waters for the first time in the season.

 

(The vacation time this man has saved up...honestly, he must’ve worked for fifteen years straight to earn this much time off.)

 

But if it weren’t for him, Emma wouldn’t feel nearly as prepared to take over for Mary Margaret when her time comes. Her due date fast approaches, but the devoted teacher she is, Mary Margaret has insisted on working until the baby pops out of her. She's big as a small whale, not that Emma would ever tell her that, and it’s beginning to wear on her. She gets grumpy a lot easier than Emma thought she’d ever see and every time Emma runs into her, Mary Margaret is grumbling and complaining for the baby to _get out._

 

Emma’s eating lunch in the teachers’ lounge, her sandwich halfway to her mouth, when Mary Margaret finds her, face red and eyes wide.

 

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Emma asks, setting her sandwich down and dusting off her hands. She knows Mary Margaret’s due date is this week or next, and her all last night about killing feet was an unforgettable rant Emma could never unhear.

 

Mary Margaret leans against the back of a chair in front of her, her breathing a little heavy.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” she inquiries.

 

Brows furrowing in confusion and concern, Emma says, “Um, I've got a gig at Fairy Forest Elemen-”

 

“Cancel it.” Mary Margaret closes her eyes and takes a deep breath through her nose. “Your long-term sub starts now.”

 

“Now?” Emma can’t help but repeat her friend’s words. Mary Margaret’s still here, how can Emma sub for her unless -

 

Then everything clicks. “Mary Margaret, are you in labor?” she asks gently.

 

Mary Margaret nods her head. “It's gotten really bad in the last half hour, but the kids are in art class now.” Pausing again to catch her breath and, Emma can only assume, survive another contraction. “Regina can find someone to cover me for the afternoon, but it's all you tomorrow.”

 

Emma chuckles hysterically, head falling back. “The last thing you should be worried about is me,” she says, packing up the rest of her lunch. She’s had enough to last her. Emma’s foremost concern right now is the woman across the table. “Is David coming for you? Can you drive? I can take you to the hospital, I'll ask Kathryn to cover for me.”

 

But Mary Margaret waves her off. “David’s going to meet me at the hospital. I can drive myself there.”

 

“Oh, hell no, not on my watch.” Throwing her trash in the bin, Emma comes around the table. She turns Mary Margaret toward her, trying to be as comforting as the woman’s always been for her as she leans against Emma. “Grab your stuff from the classroom and meet me in the front office. I'll tell them what's going on.”

 

Mary Margaret nods before leaning her head against Emma’s collarbone. Emma can feel her stuttered breathing on her skin, and all she can think to do is rub her friend's back. “Everything’s going to be great. You and David are the only people I know who are already the best parents in eh world.”

 

“You think so?” Mary Margaret whimpers.

 

“I know so.” Carefully, Emma pushes Mary Margaret up. Her friend’s got tears in her eyes, welling up from red-rimmed lids. Emma couldn’t begin to contemplate whether those are from excruciating pain or bubbling emotions. With a watery smile of her own, Emma cups Mary Margaret’s cheek. “We’ve got a hospital to go to. Let’s not fuck around.”

 

That makes Mary Margaret laugh, tears spilling over. “An elementary school, Emma,” she reminds her. “We’re in an elementary school.”

 

“I’ve heard much more creative and worse things from the second graders,” Emma jokes. “C’mon.”

 

Emma escorts Mary Margaret to her classroom and leaves to deal with her own situation. She all but jogs back to Killian’s room and throws her belongings in her bag. Swiftly, she sits down and scrawls out her own note on the back of the lesson plans.

 

‘Mr Jones,’ but then Emma scribbles that out because her best friends is having _a baby_ and there are just as many emotions coursing through her body as in Mary Margaret’s, and writes ‘Killian.

 

‘I'm really really sorry, but I had to leave early. Mary Margaret’s in labor and she was going to drive herself to the hospital and you and I both know I wasn't going to let that happen. Kathryn Griffith’s gonna take over for the rest of the day, I think.’ She should probably cement that plan before leaving school premises. ‘Please apologize to the kids for me. I couldn't wait to play Jeopardy with them. Just, you know…’

 

Emma doesn’t really know how to end that sentence. She’s never met this guy in person, but he and his class have become such a huge part of her life that leaving like this is a bit of a shame. Just, such a lackluster ending to this adventure.

 

There isn’t time to find the right words, or even time for the struggle. She quickly ends her note with, ‘I'll be around for a while, so if they want to visit Mrs Nolan’s room, they're more than welcome. Thanks.’

 

And then, because she’s already in a weird sentimental mood, Emma smiles as she writes out, You can visit, too, if you need some pointers. I know you haven’t been here in a while, but don’t worry: you’ll do wonderfully.”

 

She tidies up the desk, making sure the plans are front and center for whoever takes her place this afternoon, before she grabs her stuff and whisks down to the front office. Just as she’s turning the corner - she can literally see one of the secretaries easing Mary Margaret into a chair through the window - Emma literally bumps into Henry, on his way back to the cafeteria from a hop to the bathroom.

 

“Where are you going?” he asks, his little face scrunched up in confusion.

 

Emma stops her stride long enough to explain, “Mrs Nolan’s having her baby and I have to drive her to the hospital.” She pats him on the head before kneeling down to his level. “I’m not going to be in for Mr Jones anymore, but I want you to tell your whole class I’m sorry, but they can come visit me.” She raises her brows to accentuate her point. “Okay?”

 

Henry nods in understanding. “Go. Babies don’t wait for a long time.”

 

Laughing aloud, Emma pulls Henry in for a quick hug. “You are wise beyond your years, Henry Mills,” she compliments. “Get back to lunch.”

 

With a last grin, Henry waves and heads back to the cafeteria while Emma makes her way to the front office. She enters with a smile and a clap of her hands. Looking at Mary Margaret, she tries to put as much excitement into her voice as she can.

 

(It’s really not that hard to do. It’s a very exciting time.)

 

“Alright, let’s go have a baby!”

 

0000

 

Little Robbie Nolan has the charm of his father and the sweetness of his mother. Barely a couple hours old, Emma finds herself already head-over-heels in love with the infant. When Mary Margaret gifted her a newborn photo, it immediately finds a permanent home in Emma’s wallet. A blown up copy of it hangs on the blackboard of Mrs Nolan’s classroom, much to the pleasure of her students.

 

It’s not too difficult to transition from teaching Jones’ fifth grade class to the Mary Margaret’s third grade class. It helps that Emma’s been around the curriculum before and, despite being on maternity leave, Mary Margaret is more than willing to help her write out lesson plans.

 

(They’re such a bitch, lesson plans. Even with professional training, Mary Margaret admits they suck, which means they suck even more for an amateur like Emma.)

 

Other than that, Emma’s first foray into long-term teaching is off to a resounding start. It doesn’t hurt that she gets to drop by and see the proud parents and their sweet son whenever she’s got the time after school.

 

(Her phone background may or may not be a picture of him sleeping in her arms. She’s got absolutely no shame. He’s just so stinking cute.)

 

One morning, Emma hears the classroom door open while her back is turned, writing the current math problem on the board. She continues to ignore the visitor because, if she’s learned anything in the last couple months, it’s not to let anything or anyone interrupt her train of thought in the middle of a lesson. If it’s that important, they can send an email or still wait until she writes an equal sign.

 

“Alright, I’ll give you a couple minutes to figure out the answer to this one,” she tells the class, finally turning around to face them. “Remember what we’re learning today. Find the answer using exponents, not the calculator.”

 

With a clap of her hands, the gentle hum of pencils scratching out figures and students whispering to their neighbors take over the classroom. Only then does Emma turn her attention to the man in the back of the classroom.

 

He’s sitting against the ledge, his legs stretched out and his arms crossed over his chest. There’s something about him that keeps Emma from immediately throwing him into the hallway. There’s a silly kind of smile on his face, his head tilted to one side as if he’s taking his time in assessing her.

 

It’s unnerving. She knows she was never formally educated in teaching, but she’s learned a lot, she’s comfortable with what she’s teaching, who is this guy to judge her?

 

Emma makes her way around the tables, checking how some of the more troublesome students are doing and making sure some of the more distracted kids keep to their assignment, and all the while this strange man stares at her. When she finally gets to the back of the classroom, she stands directly in front of him.

 

“Can I help you?” she asks sternly.

 

The man’s tongue peeks out from between his grinning lips. “Not particularly, love.” Though the tone of his voice matches his looks, the accent throws Emma off. In the middle of Maine, the last thing she was expecting to come out of this man’s mouth was a vaguely English accent. “I finished all my planning early,” he continues, “and, since you so kindly invited me, I thought I’d come and see the woman my students keep fawning over.”

 

She can feel her cheeks redden as she gulps. That’s why the dark, messy hair and bracingly blue eyes look familiar: they’ve stared her down from the framed picture on Mr Jones’ desk. So that could only mean one thing.

 

“Mr K. Jones, I‘m guessing?”

 

He sticks out his hand, standing up. “You’d be correct.” She takes his hand and, out of nowhere, he kisses her knuckles, causing her blush to deepen. “Although I've told you, you are more than welcome to call me Killian.”

 

“Killian.” She’s only said his name aloud a few times, but this is by far the  most swoon-worthy it’s ever left her mouth. She shakes her head. “Emma Swan,” she tells him back.

 

“Oh, I’m well aware,” he says with a raised brow. Settling back against the shelf, Killian gestures toward the blackboard. “I do have to admit, I can see why my class would rather have you than me teaching.”

 

“Please,” she scoffs, finding it much easier to throw away his compliment than to take it at face value. “Those kids adore you. The first couple times I subbed for you, it was ‘Mr Jones does this for us’ and ‘That’s not how Mr Jones does it.’” Emma rolls her eyes. “I swear, it was a miracle we ever got anything accomplished.”

 

Shaking his head, Killian chuckles to himself. “That’s exactly the type of thing a teacher loves hearing.” A student, Violet, if Emma remembers her name correctly, comes up to them and asks a question that Emma - not to toot her own horn or anything - answers quite expertly. Only after she answers Violet’s question does she realize that the rest of the class has progressively gotten louder, obviously finished or close to finishing their practice worksheets.

 

Killian, it seems, has noticed as well. “It sounds like the natives are getting restless,” he comments, pushing off the shelf. He leans closer to her, his voice getting deeper and quieter. “I’ll let you get back to this riveting lesson.”

 

Emma can’t help but groan a little bit and complain, “Do you have to?”

 

He laughs. “That is what they’re paying you for, isn’t it, Swan?” Another student comes up to her, asking if he can make a trip to the bathroom. Emma permits it, and the student leaves just as Killian clicks his tongue. “Well, I heard you were in the building and I didn’t want to waste an opportunity to put a lovely face to the name.”

 

She rolls her eyes, resting her hand on his arm. “Alright, Romeo, you’ve already had English class, from what I remember. No time to be poetic now.”

 

“Right, serious stuff, maths.” He claps his hands, gathering the attention of the class. They turn in their seats and quiet down, something she’s yet to accomplish as quickly as he has now. “Alright, mateys, I hope you’re on your best behaviors for Ms Swan here. I don’t want her to have to call Mrs Nolan and advise her who should walk the plank.”

 

Someone in the room gasps. “You wouldn’t, Mr Jones!” someone shouts while another student yells, “Ms Swan can’t call Mrs Nolan. She doesn’t have her number!”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that something you want to try?” The children start mumbling to each other, some saying how they’ve seen Emma with Mary Margaret in the past and others who are saying they’ve never met in their life.

 

Killian, however, leans to whisper into her ear. “If you find yourself a tad bored after school or during planning, you know where to find me.” His hand lands on her bicep, giving it a light squeeze to get her attention. He winks at her one last time before sneaking out of the room, leaving her to deal with the tizzy he’s riled her students up into.

 

Come the end of the day, Emma’s feet hurt, she’s got papers to grade, and she has to get up and do it all over again tomorrow, but the intrigue behind Mr Jones’ offer is just too much to pass up. So after she waves goodbye to the buses, she slowly makes her way to the back of the school building. Most of the teachers leave shortly after the students, making the hallways slightly darker as she wanders through them now. At the end of the corridor, Mr Jones’ room is quite literally the only light at the end of the tunnel.

 

His door is wide open, but she knocks hesitantly anyway. He looks up from his pile of papers, the pen that was scratching away at written remarks coming to a halt. Killian smiles.

 

“Surprised to see me?” she asks shyly.

 

“In all honestly, yes,” he answers. “I thought I may have come on too strong,” he admits. His hands land on the top of the desk as he goes to push himself out of his desk chair, but Emma holds up her hands to stop him.

 

“No, don’t stop grading on my account,” she insists, walking toward him. “I’m learning how hard it is to get back to grading once you stop.” When she reaches the other side of his desk, Emma slides atop one of the desks nearby. “What are we reading?” she asks.

 

“This month’s book reports,” Killian says, settling back into his seat with a sigh. “You would think I handed them the book and asked for the report all in the same hour.”

 

“I'm sure that's how it seemed for some of the kids.”

 

He hums, returning to the paper in front of him to quickly write something across it before  turning back to her. “I'm wonderfully pleased that you stopped by, but you really don't have to stay. I don't want to keep you from any plans.”

 

“Well it's your lucky day,” she replies without much thought. “I find myself a free agent this evening.”

 

She does, kind of. She was going to swing by and let Mary Margaret and David, who knows, go to the grocery store on a date or something while Emma watched Robbie. But she didn’t set her plans in stone, so she can technically push it off until tomorrow.

 

(And if she plays hooky to finally talk to this man in person, then sue her.)

 

Sliding off the desk, Emma grabs the student’s desk chair and swings it until it’s around the side of the teacher’s desk. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks.

 

Killian’s brows crawl up his forehead. It seems she’s caught a little off guard. “Um, not particularly,” he says, surveying the piles on his desk. “Your company is more than enough assistance.”

 

She blushes. “Are you sure? You don't want me to put stickers on good papers or draw little monsters on the bad ones?”

 

Laughing, Killian sets his pen down again. “As much as I would enjoy that, I don't think the administration would be too fond of the monsters.” He gestures at the pen in front of him, blue ink bubbled up at the tip. “Can't even use red pen anymore because it's been shown to be too angry or some shit like that.”

 

Emma gasps, her hand covering her mouth for effect. “Such language,” she says, her hand falling from her mouth to her chest. “Think of the children.”

 

“After hours,” he reminds her with a smirk. “You’ve roamed these halls long enough to hear something along those lines. You’ve worked with some of those kids. Called them little shits, if I remember correctly.”

 

Emma shrugs. “As true as that might be,” she admits, “doesn’t it feel wrong?”

 

This time, Killian shrugs. “We _are_ the adults in this realm. We’re the ones that rule the school.”

 

“Isn’t that what the psychiatrists say when the patients run the asylum?”

 

“Probably.” They both fall into silence as Killian goes back to grading. Emma, trying not to bother or creep him out too much, watches over his shoulder as he writes out comments. He sighs, putting the pen down again and scaring her a bit. “How about I finish up this assignment and then we can do something outside of school property?” he suggests. Raising an eyebrow, Killian adds, “Perhaps grab a drink.”

 

Pretending to be scandalized, Emma scolds him: “Mr Jones, it’s a school night.”

 

He smirks, his hands coming to rest wide at the back of his head. “All the more reason, Ms Swan.”

 

Rolling her eyes, Emma gets more comfortable in her chair. “Now I understand why you needed me so often,” she reasons, crossing her arms over her chest, feeling a little self-satisfied. “I bet shrill fifth grade voices do wonders to a hangover headache.”

 

“Like you wouldn't believe, love,” Killian grumbles. “Although, to be completely transparent, the thought has crossed my mind that those students of mine are trying to replace me with you. They practically forced me out of the classroom when I so much as sneezed.”

 

Emma laughs. “I kind of get that impression too. They always wanted me to stay longer on half days so we could meet.”

 

Killian hums. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell them that we have then,” he suggests. “Leave them in suspense.”

 

While he goes back to working diligently, Emma tries to focus her attention on something productive, like perhaps cleaning up the counter on the other side of the room, but ends up getting distracted instead.

 

“Where’s the accent come from?” she asks. It’s something that’s been as on-and-off a thought as he has since they met in person earlier in the day.

 

(Mostly on.)

 

(He’s been very difficult to get off her mind.)

 

“My upbringing, I should believe,” he answers, not looking up from the paper before him. “I was raised in Kingston, outside of London.” Glancing up at her briefly, Killian asks, “Is that a problem, Swan?”

 

“No, of course not. I just wasn’t expecting it.” Under her breath, she adds, “Certainly isn’t unattractive, but whatever.”

 

By the way he chuckles as he marks a less-than-good grade on the paper before him, Emma’s assuming her attempts at subtly aren’t that at all.

 

“Who's the other guy in the picture?” she asks, avoiding the tension that might arise as well as the warmth rising on her cheeks at being caught.

 

“Liam, my brother.” Emma sighs, because that makes a lot of sense. They look enough alike and Killian has mentioned his existence in many of his notes. “We sail out on the _Jolly Roger_ during the summer,” he explains.

 

“Ah, that explains the boat picture.”

 

“Ship,” he’s quick to correct her.

 

“Ship?” Killian looks up briefly again to nod at his correction.“Ship. Where's she these days?”

 

“Oregon coast, if you can believe it.” Sighing, Killian put the cap on his pen and sets it down. “As much as I love this nice tete-a-tete we’ve got going here, I would be more than happy to discuss it after I finish these last five papers.” He taps his fingers on said papers, his brow arching with challenge.

 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Emma chuckles, getting up and walking backward toward the dirty counter. Pointing over her shoulder, she says, “I'll go busy myself over here. Let you get your work done, I guess.”

 

“That’s all I was asking, darling.”

 

0000

 

“Is this seat taken?” Killian’s voice startles her, deep and closer than she could’ve expected. Not that she was expecting his voice at all. Per the daily staff email, he was supposed to be out sick this morning, shouldn’t be on school property until quarter after noon.

 

“What are you doing here?” she asks, looking up at him from her seat.

 

He searches the room, confusion clear on his face. “This is the teachers’ lounge, Swan,” he says gently, as if she’s the one who shouldn’t be here. “It’s a public space.”

 

“But your kids are in your classroom,” she reasons. “And the email said you were out sick.”

 

Killian shrugs, setting his bag on the table space next to her. “Took the morning off for professional development but thought I’d come in anyway,” he says. His hand rests on the back of the chair next to her as his eyes widened in entreaty. “So may I sit here?”

 

Still a little stunned and not yet rid of the goosebumps from her earlier surprise, Emma nods. “Yeah, sure.”

 

Not that there was anything really to go off of before, but something changed inherently between them that night they went for drinks once he finally finished grading book reports. Their banter evolved before Emma’s eyes, from the long distance banter of their little notes to the quick-as-a-whip sarcasm and smartassery of real life interactions.

 

That night, after he treated her to a drink - or four, as it ended up being - Emma’s found him in her pathway more often than not. They’ve taken to counting the number of times in a day they see each other and Emma would be wrong to say that she doesn’t look forward to that little game of theirs.

 

(Their record so far is 13. They were both pretty impressed with themselves.)

 

(She treated him to drinks that night.)

 

(And dinner.)

 

(It might have been a date.)

 

And then the texts start and Mary Margaret still helps her with lesson plans on occasion, but now that Robbie’s a little colicky and her and David are a little more sleep deprived, Killian’s more of her go-to guy for that.

 

(Among other things…)

 

He’s scooting into the chair beside her, the legs of the furniture scratching against the linoleum, as he asks, “How is the little Nolan babe these days?”

 

“Robbie.” He knows the baby’s name: Emma’s told him time after time, especially when Mary Margaret sends her a new picture. And she can tell that Killian’s just pulling her leg by the sly grin growing on his face as he looks at her. Rolling her eyes, Emma can’t help from smiling herself. “He’s wonderful. All three of them are great.”

 

“That's excellent to hear.”

 

“So were you just too upset at the prospect of not seeing me today that you had to come in?” she asks goadingly.

 

The one day she’d called in sick a couple days ago, her phone had nearly shut down with the sheer number of texts and missed calls she gotten when she finally decided to get up from her bed and shower. Sure, she expected the handful from David and Mary Margaret, the one or two from Regina saying that her sick leave was approved and to feel better, but she thought Killian might die without seeing her. It’s how his dramatic messages came off. Despite her telling him not to, he stopped over after work just to make sure she had everything she could’ve possibly needed.

 

“Would it put you off completely if I admit, yes, a wee bit?” he admits sheepishly, his tongue running across his lower lip. “You're quite enchanting, love. No matter what's already happened, you make any given day a hell of a lot better.”

 

Emma blushes, focusing back on the emails that awaited responses. “That still doesn’t really answer my question.”

 

“Yes it does.”

 

Starting to get frustrated, Emma finally huffs, “Then why exactly do I see you so much even when you should be with your kids and you aren’t off on P.D.?” It’s been on her mind as often as his accent when she showers or his blue eyes in her dreams. The instructional assistant has their desk in her classroom and she doesn’t even see them 13 times in one day. Something odd is afoot with their little game, and Emma knows it’s almost certainly Killian’s doing, because it sure as hell isn’t hers.

 

He sighs, opening his laptop. “I might, on occasion, ask someone to watch my classroom under the pretense that I need to visit the restroom.”

 

“And you come find me instead,” she extrapolates.

 

His hand reaches up to scratch behind his ear, a nervous tick Emma's learned in their time together. “Guilty as charged,” he admits shyly.

 

Emma tsks at him. “You’re going to get in trouble one of these days,” she tells him, her voice melodic, almost gloating.

 

This time when he leans in to whisper in her ear, at least she’s got some warning: his jacket shushes up against the fabric of the chair. “Life’s not worth living without a little risk,” he murmurs enticingly. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Killian pulls away, much to her chagrin, although it’s probably for the best. She isn’t quite sure she could be held accountable for anything she may or may not have done if they’d maintained their proximity.

 

(She hasn’t had the pleasure of experiencing much of a romance with Killian thus far, but she certainly has enough fantasies to fulfill to give her a good idea of how it might have happened.)

 

And as he goes to putter about on his laptop, Emma hopes that Killian isn’t talking about only risking a few minutes with his students to see her. It sounds like he plans on jumping out of a plane, or swimming with sharks, or something even more life-changing than that.

 

(She can’t help but be curious as to what he might be thinking. Because if she’s on his wavelength, his and her little life-changing risk might coincide.)

 

(Or at least she hopes they do.)

 

0000

 

It's a rainy Saturday, which hopefully bodes well if old wives’ tales should be trusted. Emma’s dress is perfectly white, probably the only solid white piece of clothing she owns that doesn't have food stains or art project remains on it. It’s a hazard of teaching she’s gotten used to in her time as a substitute and then a fully-certified teacher, but seeing this pristine dress on, reflected back at her in the mirror, makes her wish that maybe she had a couple more shirts and pants that were at least this close to clean.

 

(Thank goodness she had had the foresight to ask to get ready in the back room of the church. The moment she steps outside in the downpour, her dress could be ruined. But she'll roll with the punches.)

 

Mary Margaret sniffs slightly, a tissue covering the lower half of her face. Emma matches her gaze in the mirror.

 

“No, don’t do that,” she says sternly, already feeling her bottom lip beginning to tremble. “If you start crying, then I’ll start crying, and I can’t afford to redo my makeup.”

 

Sniffing again, Mary Margaret pats lightly at the corners of her own eyes. “You’re gorgeous,” she says, her voice as watery as her eyes.

 

Emma‘s smile is sympathetic. “Thanks.” For a moment, she just stares at her friend, equally as beautiful in her own maid of honor dress, before she shakes herself out of it. Looking back in the mirror, making sure everything is absolutely perfect, Emma asks, “What time is it?”

 

“Time to go.” David’s sassy response comes from the doorway. He looks dapper himself, even with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression is nearly identical to his wife’s, looking entirely the part of a man walking his daughter down the aisle. “You look like a blushing bride.”

 

Shoulders slumping with emotion, Emma grins back. “Thanks, Dad.” Stepping away from the mirror and toward her friends, she asks, “Where’s Robbie?”

 

“Granny’s got him, I think.” David leans over and kisses Mary Margaret on the temple before wrapping his arms around both his girls’ shoulders. “Or maybe Regina. I don’t know, the boy’s got so much damn charm. He’s been making his rounds.”

 

“Of course he has,” Emma chuckles out. She takes a deep breath, centering herself just like she did before taking the PRAXIS or walking into her first interview post-teaching degree. Then she opens her eyes, blows out a raspberry, and grins. “Okay, let’s do this.”

 

Mary Margaret squeals in delight as David smiles. Taking her hand, David threads Emma’s arm through the crook of his elbow. Mary Margaret goes ahead of them, taking on the role of maid of honor as seriously as she has since the day Emma asked, and David leads her to the back of the church. An attendant opens and closes the door, permitting the rest of the wedding procession in. They casually walk down to the altar, to where she knows Killian is standing there waiting for her, big brother Liam at his side.

 

(Liam had texted her last night, acting as the middleman between the two of them, telling her Killian was a ball of nerves and would probably be a little less than up to any arduous activities after tonight was over.

 

She told him she’d probably be the same. If she knew her fiancé, Killian’s last night as a bachelor would have been as sleepless as hers as a bachelorette.)

 

The door clunks shut behind Mary Margaret, leaving Emma and David the only ones in the hall besides the official door opener.

 

David’s hand taps on hers gripping to the crease of his elbow. “You ready?” he asks.

 

Licking her lips, Emma nods. She’s got one more thing on her mind before she’s really ready to do this whole ‘until death do us part’ thing.

 

“Thank you,” she says quickly. David squints his eyes at her. “If you hadn’t knocked Mary Margaret up, then we would never have gotten here. So I just wanted to say that before everything gets really emotional and everyone gets questionably drunk.” She breathes deeply and sighs. “Okay, yeah, now I am.”

 

David sniffs, holding back tears. He may be putting on a little bit of an act, but she can tell there are real tears ready to fall once the ceremony starts. “What a bomb to drop at a time like this,” he murmurs.

 

Emma shrugs, adjusting her bouquet to ward off any awkwardness she feels. “You’ve been around Killian,” she says. “Guess I’ve gotten a little too used to waiting for the dramatic reveal thing he does.” Sighing again, she stands up straight and faces the door separating her from the rest of her life.

 

(Not to be dramatic or anything.)

 

“Really, let’s do this,” she says confidently. “I’ve got a knot to tie.”

 

David gestures to the attendant, and the door opens to reveal their guests, pews nearly full on both sides. As she and David take their measures steps down the aisle, she waves and smiles at all the faces she recognizes as they pass by. Some of her master’s program classmates are here, along with current coworkers and former teachers. Hell, even some of her former coworkers from the bail bonds agency have made it. Probably just so they can go to the party afterwards.

 

(Definitely so they can go to the party afterwards.)

 

And at the front of the church, in the second and third rows, are 22 teenagers, their smiles so wide it nearly brings Emma to tears. The 23rd - mastermind matchmaker Henry - stands behind Killian with his other groomsmen.

 

It's been a few years - Mr Jones’ fifth grade class now well into their high school experience - but every single one of them found the time between academic decathlons and track meets and Shakespeare plays to watch their teacher and their favorite substitute get married. At first she thought it was a little unconventional, but when she brought it up to Killian one night before they fell asleep, he found it brilliant.

 

“In case you haven't noticed, love, those kids still love you,” he’d whispered into the skin of her shoulder. “At least one of them sends me an email updating us on their lives every week. We've attended every play and homecoming.” She had curled into his chest, her head coming to rest over his steady heartbeat. “I'm pretty sure those kids see us as their cool aunt and uncle.”

 

“Well, I guess it would an insult not to invite them to a family wedding,” she’d murmured back.

 

Emma thought she’d be able to hold herself together until at least the vows. While she had decided to use the traditional words, she knows Killian has written his own, probably with the specific intention of destroying her emotions. But the moment she spots those kids, she remembers every little nudge they gave her, every time she wrote to Killian about the days they spent trying to get through a lesson plan, and the dams break.

 

Much to David’s surprise, Emma stops in the middle of the aisle, two pews from the altar. She makes eye contact with Killian, who tilts his head, silently asking _what are you up to?_

 

Emma gestures toward the kids next to her.

 

He understands, stepping down from the altar to her side.

 

Emma turns to David. “I know this is a little off book, but I’ve got a couple people I’ve got to thank,” she tells him.

 

David smiles and moves her hand from his elbow to Killian’s proffered arm. “Say no more,” he says. “I completely understand.”

 

With a kiss to her forehead, David heads to Granny’s side, taking Robbie from her grasp.. Vaguely, Emma can hear her maid of honor stand up and start explaining the small halt in the ceremony, but Emma herself is too focus on squeezing the life out of every kid that comes to her. Each one of them embraces her back, some of them whispering how excited or happy they are, before moving on to hug Killian. It only takes five or so minutes to make it through the class, some of the girls crying even harder than they were before at the gesture.

 

Once the last student - Henry, of course - makes it back to their place, Emma wipes cautiously beneath her eyes. Killian takes her other hand and squeezes.

 

“Are you ready to get married now?” he asks, his voice lovingly mocking.

 

Emma nods, leaning into his shoulder. “Hopefully I won’t get distracted now,” she says.

 

Killian kisses the top of her head. “Don’t worry, love, you’ll do wonderfully.”


End file.
